


Questions of Progress

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cocaine, Drug Use, Drugs, Flashbacks, Friendship, Fuckbuddies, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 16:14:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Sherlock contemplates how far he's willing to pursue his interest in his new flatmate, he reflects on his past "no strings attached" relationship with Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Infinite thanks to[CrayolaDinosaurs](archiveofourown.org/users/CrayolaDinosaurs/pseuds/CrayolaDinosaurs), my lovely beta. Even if she is a comma whore. You're fabulous, Angela ♥**
> 
> Title taken from Coldplay's "The Scientist."
> 
> This fic will become more explicit. 
> 
> Tags will be added as necessary.
> 
> The plan is for it to span from "A Study in Pink" (6 mo. prior in the flashbacks) to post Reichenbach.

Sherlock listened absently to the voices at the door, Mrs. Hudson wishing the detective inspector a good morning with her usual overdone cheeriness, Greg Lestrade thanking her. He came up the stairs and pushed open the already ajar door, spotting Sherlock where he lay on the couch, fingers steepled below his chin.

“You’re usually asleep at this time after a case wraps up,” Greg commented. He set down the two cups of coffee he had brought with him and took an envelope from under his arm.

“Statement?” With an almost otherworldly ease, Sherlock swung his legs around into a sitting position. He plucked up one of the coffees, the one marked with an _S_ , though the second had obviously been half drained already.

“Yeah.” Greg tossed the envelope to Sherlock, who caught it in his free hand and let the papers slide onto his lap. He set the empty envelope aside and turned the papers about, scanning them each in turn. “Where’s your new flatmate?”

“Moves in this afternoon.” Sherlock put the cup back on the coffee table, not having taken a single sip, and held out a hand to Greg. He produced a pen from his coat and handed it over. Sherlock signed the documents, slipped them back into the folder and handed it all back to the Yarder. He finally took a drink from his cup and glanced up at Greg. He smirked.

“What?” Greg went on the defensive at once.

“Really, Gregory-” the inspector rolled his eyes “-jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

Greg snorted. “Jealousy, right.”

“It’s almost quaint,” Sherlock taunted. He leaned back into the couch, stretching out his legs and bringing his cup to his lips. “You have nothing to worry about, dear Gregory-”

“You really need to stop calling me that,” he interjected with an eye roll.

“-even if we were still fucking,” Sherlock continued, not missing a beat, “you’d have nothing to worry about from Dr. Watson.” The tension in Greg’s hand made it clear he wanted to throw the envelope at Sherlock.

Greg rolled his shoulders in a forced effort to make himself relax. He allowed himself a smile. “You do fancy him though, don’t you?”

Sherlock took a pointed drink of his coffee before responding, “I actually thought he was flirting with me last night.”

“When?” Greg’s brow rose curiously.

“Oh, before you and your lot showed up to mess up several weeks’ worth of experiments.” Sherlock gestured lazily to the rest of the flat, which was a mess whether the Yard had poked around or not. “At Angelo’s. I’m still not convinced he was simply making small talk,” he almost sneered around the phrase, “but he was quite adamant about being heterosexual, and not in your typical homophobe-in-denial manner.”

“Well,” Greg said, shifting the envelope under his arm again. “We know that isn’t your area of expertise.”

“And that pleases you to no end,” Sherlock said, punctuating it with a sigh.

“Yes it does.” He leaned down to pick up his cup, but in one swift motion Sherlock had leaned forward and covered it with his hand hovering above it.

“But then again, that never stopped you.”

Greg ducked his hand under Sherlock’s and picked up his coffee. “No, you’re right. I remember quite a very long speech you forced me to sit through before I ended up in your bed.”

Sherlock sat back. “Let’s be fair, Gregory. There was a good thirty-six hours between my speech and what was in fact your bed.”

Greg headed for the door. “Have a good day, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled to himself and, after finishing his coffee, resumed his previous position on the couch, staring into his thoughts, though they had shifted considerably, at least for a little while. They rewound past last night, briefly putting aside "Moriarty," to remember six months ago.

 

 _It was late, almost thirty-six hours exactly after Sherlock’s “speech” to Greg, when the detective inspector texted him,_ Come around. We need to talk. _Sherlock was content to oblige. He hadn’t expected anything to come of it really, just a continuation of Greg’s flustered ramblings:_ not gay, not even bi, never interested in men, this makes no sense, why would you even think that. _No, Sherlock expected another couple of days to pass at least before anything actually happened, when there was a stifling balance between his lecture and the impending return of Mrs. Lestrade from her visit to Brighton, where supposedly her mother was quite ill. Sherlock decided not to remind Greg that she was in fact continuing her affair with a childhood friend of hers. That would only make Greg angry at Sherlock, and while the man was beyond agitated and extremely annoyed with Sherlock, he had not yet tipped into fury. That was why Sherlock still expected some outcome, before Mrs. Lestrade’s return._

_Greg was, in fact, far more composed than Sherlock expected, which only annoyed Sherlock. He started as soon as they had sat down in the parlour, in separate chairs angled halfway towards one another. “I understand what you said the other day, and maybe that’s so for some people. But it’s not for me, Sherlock. I’m married. I know my wife and I aren’t in the best of places right now, but I love her and I want things to work between us.”_

_That, Greg’s dodging around every question Sherlock had posed to him the other day to drivel about his constantly unfaithful wife, that was the last straw. Sherlock shot out of his chair and in one and a half strides was leaning over Greg, a hand on each arm of the chair. Greg pressed himself against the chair, opened his mouth to protest—probably something about personal space—but Sherlock ducked in and pressed his mouth against Greg’s._

_Greg immediate grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and, after a split moment hesitation, shoved Sherlock back. “What the hell, Sherlock?”_

_Sherlock relished the high, scandalized pitch in Greg’s voice, but he hid his smile. Instead he leaned forward again and whispered, “She’s probably getting fucked right now, and that’s the argument you’re going to give me?”_

_He waited, watching everything Greg was thinking flash across his face and in his eyes, through every twitch and half blink and crease in his skin. He didn’t move, forward or back, for quite a while._

_When his already thin patience finally wore, though, he said in the same low voice, “Yes or no, Greg. Right now.” But he couldn’t resist the urge to keep egging him on, “I’ve seen the way you look at women. They aren’t just glances, simple ‘she’s attractive’ glances. I can see you thinking, ‘What if I slept with her? What if I had an affair?’ How long has it been since you and your wife shagged? But no, we both know it’s not just about that. ‘It’s not fair.’ That’s what you’re thinking. And this is what I’m offering you, Greg: fucking. None of that ridiculous emotional clutter. No jealousy. You don’t have to worry about me outing everything to your wife. You don’t have to worry about seeing me when your wife decides to actually live here, aside from cases. No mess. You get even with your wife, and everyone’s well-shagged and happy.” Sherlock watched the cogs turn behind Greg’s eyes. He leaned in almost imperceptibly. “Yes or no.” The affirmative had barely escaped Greg’s lips when Sherlock leaned forward again, and this time Greg grabbed his shoulders to pull him in._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a million times over to [crayoladinosaurs](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CrayolaDinosaurs/) who is now beta'ing this story.

It didn’t take Sherlock’s powers of observation to deduce John was angry with him. His entire body was tense, and he was doing a poor job of concealing his scowl. John’s neck muscles were especially tight. Sherlock ran his tongue against the back of his teeth to keep from licking his lips. He turned back to the microscope. He didn’t bother focusing his attention again, knowing John was about to interrupt him.

“Sherlock,” John said his name like he was a child who didn’t know he’d done wrong and was going to get chastised for the mistake.

“Hm?” Sherlock didn’t look up from the scope and pretended to adjust the focus.

“What happened last night-”

“Yes. How is Sarah? I assume she’s well since you’re back.” He could see John shift his weight, surprised by Sherlock’s concern.

“She’s alright, considering. But that’s just it.” John rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You can’t do that.”

“Do what, John?” He noticed something of interest on the slide and made a mental note to look more closely at it after this ridiculous conversation.

“Put people in danger like that!” Now John’s voice was escalating, and Sherlock looked up at him, quirking his brow up slightly.

“I wasn’t the one who kidnapped you,” he said blandly.

“I know, but what about before that? You sent us to that damn circus and you knew. I was on a date, Sherlock, and you turned it into part of your case.” Now John scowled openly at Sherlock, his face reddening, fists clamped tightly against his sides.

“Our case,” Sherlock said. “It’s not my fault you decided to go gallivanting off while we were working.”

John’s nostrils flared. “Not our case,” he snapped. “I have an actual job, if you hadn’t noticed. I don’t mind helping you now and then, but I’m not your bloody assistant.”

“Your behaviour over the last two months would suggest otherwise.” Sherlock couldn’t resist a smirk.

For a solid thirty seconds, John stood flustered and unable to speak. Finally he shouted, “That doesn’t give you the right to put innocent people’s lives at stake!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Honestly, John. You and Sarah are both of sound health. I don’t see what you’re so worked up about.” He could see John’s arms twitching. No doubt he was tempted to take a swing at Sherlock.

Well, Sherlock would be damned if John’s overreaction was going to ruin his work. He rose from his stool lazily and brushed past John into the parlour. He made for his violin, but had barely passed John’s chair when he felt John grab his shoulder and yank him around. Sherlock brushed John’s hand away and straightened his dressing gown.

“Is this conversation going anywhere?” John snapped. “Is it even getting through to you?”

“If you’re implying that I haven’t been listening, I have,” Sherlock huffed. “As for where it’s ‘going,’ I don’t know what you expect me to do about something that’s happened and is finished.”

John threw up his arms. “I don’t know! An apology? Do you even know what that is?”

“Yes, John, but I don’t see how it will affect matters. Apologies serve no practical purpose. People put more effort into them and more meaning behind them than they’re worth. However,” Sherlock sighed, “if that’s all you need to discontinue this pointless discussion, then I apologise.” John stood there fuming wordlessly. “Honestly, John. Why are you being so protective of this woman? You’ve had one date with her. You haven’t even had sex with her. To be honest I’m surprised, considering the adrenaline and hormones that were pumping through your bodies after last night’s incident.”

“What are you implying?” John’s voice lowered as he hardened his eyes on Sherlock.

“I’m not implying anything.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I am simply stating that it’s mildly surprising that, after last night’s biochemical stimulation, a woman who is clearly no stranger to sexual intercourse wouldn’t-”

Sherlock was waiting for it, and had honestly expected John to have more speed than he did. He was probably hindered from lack of sleep, certainly by being emotionally overwrought. And, of course, the many months since John was on active duty. It culminated into a poor excuse for a punch. While it may have done its job in a brawl, Sherlock was well-rested and expectant. He snatched John’s wrist and twisted him around, hooked a toe around his ankle and pulled. John fell back over the arm of the chair, Sherlock leaning over him.

John lashed out, despite what must have been a painful position for his arm, but Sherlock released him and stepped back before John’s trainers and free arm made contact. Sherlock’s breathing was laboured, despite the fact that it had taken little exertion to compromise John. He swivelled on the pad of his foot and stormed off to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He half expected John to come break down the door, but the good doctor went up to his own room and closed his door more gently. Sherlock closed his eyes and took a steadying breath.

 

_It had been three weeks since Sherlock and Greg started their affair. Sherlock prided himself on his tolerance because, to be perfectly honest, he was getting bored. Not to say Greg Lestrade was a bad fuck, but Sherlock required more stimulation after the novelty of a new partner wore off._

_He showed up at Greg’s not an hour after he knew Mrs. Lestrade’s flight left Heathrow—this time for a legitimate business trip to Tokyo that would keep her away from home for almost two weeks. Greg blinked stupidly at Sherlock for a moment as his mouth began to form the word “how.” Instead he just shook his head and let Sherlock in._

_“We’re going to try something new,” Sherlock said as he walked after Greg to the bedroom. He regretted not being able to see Greg’s face, but the way his shoulders went rigid said enough. He pressed his fingertips between Greg’s shoulder blades and gave him a shove. He hooked his heel around the door and swung it shut. “Strip and lie down.” Sherlock draped his coat on top of the dresser and went through to the bathroom. He stripped down to his boxers and folded his clothes loosely over his arm._

_In the bedroom, Greg had followed Sherlock’s orders: Greg was lying on his back completely nude. He propped himself up on his elbows when Sherlock came out of the bathroom. Sherlock placed his clothes on top of his coat and reached into the coat pocket. He drew out two sets of handcuffs and walked over to the bed. If there was one thing Greg Lestrade could do well as a Detective Inspector, it was look completely at ease despite a potentially unsettling situation. Well, at least to the average eye._

_Sherlock pushed him back with the palm of his hand. He drew one of Greg’s arms up towards the bedpost. As he snapped one side of a pair around Greg’s wrist, Greg said with a strained smile, “So this is what you nick them for?”_

_“At least this way they get some use.” Sherlock closed the other side around the bedpost and Greg’s expression fell._

_“Sherlock,” he started._

_Sherlock climbed onto the bed and knelt over Greg’s chest. He picked up the other wrist. “Hm?”_

_“I’m not,” he swallowed as Sherlock leaned over him to hook the other wrist to its post. “Not sure about this.”_

_“About what?” Sherlock leaned back, letting the fabric of his boxers just barely brush Greg’s pelvis._

_“This.” Greg shook the handcuffs. “What is this even?”_

_“Something different.” Sherlock swung his leg over and off the bed. He went back to his coat and retrieved a packet of lube. He backtracked to the bathroom, letting the door swing slowly closed while still leaving a big enough opening for Lestrade to see through, even if all he could see was a strip of flesh._

_Sherlock pushed his boxers down with his back to the door. He tore open the pack of lube and coated his right fingers. Sherlock could just make out the sigh of relief from Greg when he probed one long finger into his own anus. He leaned forward and braced his left hand against the sink as he fingered himself. When he pushed a second digit in, he was momentarily distracted by his own reflection. He moved his hand more slowly, studying the way the muscles in his face tensed and contracted as he spread the two fingers inside himself. He made a mental note to have Greg fuck him in this position at a later date._

_After scissoring the two fingers inside himself, he pulled them out. He wouldn’t be able to do much more on his feet. Besides, he was controlling this round; he could take as much time as he liked. He was a little disappointed Greg hadn’t called out and instead appeared to be waiting patiently in his restraints. Perhaps the knowledge that he was still going to be the one penetrating had relaxed him enough to be tolerant of Sherlock’s teasing. Maybe Sherlock should have closed the door fully after all. Notes for the future. He picked up his boxers and the open packet of tube from the edge of the sink and left the bathroom. He tossed his boxers on top of his other clothes, retrieved a condom from his coat pocket, and went to the bed._

_Greg raised his head in what had to cause an uncomfortable strain on his neck and shoulders. Sherlock touched Greg’s sternum with his left fingers, still slick, though some of the lube had come off from gripping the sink. He ran them lightly in a line down Greg’s torso, swirling once around his navel, brushing through soft hairs until his fingertips tickled the base of Greg’s half-hard cock. Muscles and flesh twitched at the touch, and Sherlock smiled to himself. He wrapped his fingers around the shaft and pulled the foreskin back to expose the head. He rubbed it with his thumb and listened to Greg’s breath caught. Greg’s cock swelled in Sherlock’s hand. He tore open the packet and rolled the condom on._

_Sherlock climbed back onto the bed and knelt above Greg again, this time bare-arsed and facing the opposite direction, a knee sinking into the mattress on either side of Greg’s chest. He leaned over and took half of Greg’s cock in his mouth, sucking as he brought his lips up to the head. Behind him Greg moaned and pressed back into the mattress, lifting his hips slightly. Sherlock released him with a wet_ pop _and Greg gasped. Sherlock squeezed the rest of the lube packet into his palm and slicked Greg up with slow, pressured strokes._

_When Greg finally said Sherlock’s name, it was a half-desperate growl. He said it fairly early tonight. It hadn’t taken Greg long to figure out that’s what Sherlock wanted, to hear him plead. He wasn’t stupid, not really, not compared to the average idiot. Some nights he held out longer, more out of stubbornness than for the game. Tonight was not one of those times, and again Sherlock was mildly disappointed. He turned around and surveyed Greg. He was already breathing a little heavily, his arms strained against the handcuffs. Sherlock lined himself up with Greg’s cock, holding it with one hand._

_“Wait,” Greg said, uncertainty creeping into his voice._

_Sherlock sighed, but he paused. “Yes or no, Greg,” he prompted. He met Greg’s hesitant gaze, and at the same time he moved his thumb lightly over Greg’s balls._

_Greg threw his head against the pillow. “Fuck it. Yes.”_

_Sherlock smiled and began lowering himself slowly onto Greg. Greg groaned and brought his knees up. Sherlock used them as a support as he bore down. He was still tight, but the slight sting was more pleasurable than not. When he was all the way down, Greg let out a strangled_ Christ! _Sherlock waited until Greg started shifting his hips impatiently._

_He pushed himself back up, revelling in the slide before beginning a steady pace. Greg tried matching him, but Sherlock shot him a glare and Greg stopped moving. He resigned to laying back with his eyes shut and his hands clenched. Sherlock quickened his pace slightly, adding a rock that brought Greg’s cock to brush his prostate and elicit marvellous noises from Greg’s throat and mouth, despite his pride._

_Sherlock hung his head back as he moved on Greg. Eventually, Greg couldn’t help but buck his hips erratically into Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock gripped Greg’s knees tight and the smack of skin against skin came to a sudden stop as Greg came. Sherlock released one knee and brought himself off with a few quick strokes. His come spattered across Greg’s chest. Greg looked at him, panting and a little wide-eyed. Sherlock just arched his brow nonchalantly in response._

_After a moment, Sherlock clambered off Greg and the bed, gathered his clothes, and went to the bathroom. He wiped himself off with a few pieces of bath tissue, flushed, and washed his hands. He reemerged dressed to find Greg glowering at him from the bed. Hardly threatening considering the state he was in. Sherlock retrieved the keys from his coat and opened the handcuffs._

_“Might want to ice that,” he suggested offhandedly with a glance at the bright red marks on Greg’s wrists. They would be swollen and purple by morning, making any office work to be done infinitely more uncomfortable. Sherlock returned the cuffs and keys to his coat pocket and shrugged it on. Without another word he walked out of the bedroom, even closing that door behind him, and out of the Lestrades’ home. It took only a moment to hail a cab._


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock spent the day following their encounter with the Black Lotus at the morgue and in the St. Bart’s lab. He almost expected John to be partly moved out when he returned just before ten that evening. At the very least he thought John would announce such intentions to him when he walked through the door. But when Sherlock walked into the parlour, John was at the desk typing in his agonizingly slow fashion.

“Where have you been all day?” John sounded vaguely curious, but not at all annoyed or angry. His posture echoed the mood.

“Bart’s,” Sherlock replied curtly. He hung up his coat and went into the kitchen.

“There’s curry in the fridge if you want it,” John called to him.

Sherlock looked up from his workstation. “Shame, I was hoping you’d pick up Chinese.” John shook his head, not looking up, but the grin was plenty visible. Sherlock had no desire to eat, but he spooned a small portion of the takeaway onto a plate in a show of goodwill.

The rest of the night and the following day passed quietly, until Sherlock came across a potentially fascinating case in Minsk. He booked a flight and was off to the airport before tea. Unfortunately, it was as dull as it had sounded interesting, and he was back in 221B by one in the morning. John was already asleep, but Sherlock was too agitated by the fallen-through case to go to bed. He attempted to focus on some of his tests, even tried to start a new one, but it all aggravated him. At half past four, he finally went to his room and collapsed onto his bed, forcing himself to sleep.

The next day was agonizing. Sherlock woke from a few hours sleep in a mood with which he was quite familiar. He checked his phone, but of course there were no messages from Greg. It was rare to have two interesting cases from the Yard so close together. So Sherlock’s next reaction to the dullness descending on his mind was to crouch by the bed and pry loose a floorboard. He slipped out a box and started to open the lid. He paused when it was barely cracked and looked at his door. He hadn’t used cocaine since before he met John. It had been almost five months, in fact, since his last use. Of course, there had been Greg’s show that first night, but that didn’t mean John had concluded Sherlock might actually use. However, he was a doctor; he would be able to tell at once if Sherlock put cocaine in his system.

 _Why do I care?_ He snapped the box shut and replaced it under the floor, securing the board again. He pulled on his blue dressing gown and went out to the parlour. As it happened, John wasn’t even home. _Probably out with Sarah. Or at that new job of his._ Sherlock checked the date on his phone, noting it was a weekday. _Both, then._

His mind reeled at having nothing to do. He fell into his chair, only to leap up a moment later and start pacing patterns around the parlour and kitchen. That didn’t even last a full minute. He went into the kitchen and started picking through his various experiments, at first attempting to organize things, and then he started throwing out specimens and slides that had gone past use. He spent a few minutes doing that before storming back into the parlour, the lid of the bin still open.

Sherlock was testing his aim on the wall when John came home from work. He let John take the gun from him, brought out of his brooding for the smallest moment when John’s hand brushed against his. But it returned as soon as John had the gun and walked away. The pseudo-argument that followed left Sherlock further annoyed, but less with John than with himself. Had the conversation been with Greg, Sherlock would have been delighted to grate on the man’s nerves. As he watched John storm off along Baker Street, though, he felt a sharp twist in his stomach.

 

_Greg slammed his front door after letting Sherlock and then himself in. Sherlock didn’t even turn at the noise. He slid out of his damp coat and hung it over the back of one of the armchairs, following it with his scarf._

_“Was that really necessary?” Greg finally snapped as he tore off his jacket._

_“What?” Sherlock turned to see the detective inspector was still fuming._

_“Treating me like I’m- like I’m- hell, like I’m Anderson.”_

_Sherlock smirked. “Well, you were being about as dense.”_

_“One mistake-”_

_“That could have lost you your murderer.” Sherlock dropped the smile and arched a brow. “You’re lucky I was there.” He added with a sigh, “As usual.”_

_Greg swung the front door open again and pointed to the drizzle outside. “Out.”_

_Sherlock leaned against the back of the armchair. “Really, you’re overreacting, Gregory.” Greg’s face flushed, and Sherlock made a mental note to use that name again._

_“I said get out.”_

_Sherlock stood and walked over to the entrance. He closed the door and leaned almost against Greg, forcing him back into the wall. He curled his fingers around Greg’s tie. “I said ‘no strings attached,’” he spoke in a low voice. He dropped his head so his lips were by Greg’s ear. “Just because I’m letting you fuck me doesn’t mean I’m going to start treating you any differently outside.”_

_Greg’s jaw dropped, though he looked more incredulous than anything. He pushed a hand against Sherlock’s chest and shoved him back. “You’re_ letting _me?” Greg snorted. “You were the one practically begging me.”_

_“Semantics,” Sherlock said with a faint scowl. He moved forward again, but Greg held up his hand._

_“No,” he said. “This is done.” He opened the door again._

_Sherlock snatched up his coat and scarf and went back into the drizzle without putting on either. He walked several blocks before hailing a cab._

 

It was almost touching to see John burst into the flat the next morning, his blue eyes flashing between Sherlock and the empty window frames. It was far less touching to see him gloat later in the day as the Yarders taunted Sherlock about his lack of knowledge in certain meaningless areas of study. Then it all settled into what was becoming a regular pattern back and forth between John’s amazement and praise of Sherlock’s intellect, and his annoyance and complaints about Sherlock’s manners. It was beginning to feel, quite simply, comfortable.

So when John showed up at the pool, Sherlock experienced a rare moment in which his mind short-circuited. As his cognitive processes rebooted, he ran over every scrap of data he’d collected about Dr. John H. Watson over the last two months. None of it amounted to this, until John opened his bulky jacket to reveal a vest of semtex. Sherlock’s initial reaction was relief, quickly followed by an unfamiliar sense of dread. He couldn’t analyze it at the moment, not with both their lives in the line of fire, not with Moriarty finally making an appearance.

Later that night, though, when they were back in the relative safety of 221B drinking tea in a heavy silence, Sherlock ran through it all again. He wasn’t keen on what the facts were telling him about why he’d reacted to John’s danger the way he had.

A few days later, John came home from work and announced he was going to New Zealand for a couple weeks to visit an old mate. “I just need to clear my head after everything.”

Sherlock paused with his bow resting on the strings of his violin. He didn’t turn away from the window. “Fine,” he said, and continued playing.

“Sarah’s coming,” John added, but Sherlock didn’t acknowledge this statement. He listened to John’s footsteps retreat upstairs to pack. When the upstairs bedroom door closed, Sherlock put up his violin and took out his phone. He scrolled briefly through his list of contacts, pausing several times on Molly and Greg. He returned his phone to his pocket and retreated to the kitchen to check on a few culture dishes that had been stewing overnight.

 

_A month later, Greg called Sherlock in on a case. The DI’s reluctance was almost tangible in his text alone; it was certainly palpable in his demeanour when Sherlock appeared at the Soho crime scene. It wasn’t a particularly complicated case except in locating the victim’s assailant. It was suppertime when Greg contacted Sherlock, and by dawn they had been dragged to almost every corner of the city before catching up with their target. Even Sherlock was exhausted enough to collapse fully-clothed in his new accommodations on Baker Street._

_It was dark again when his landlady’s voice woke him. He rose ragged from the bed and went to the door. Mrs. Hudson looked concerned. “Sherlock, there’s a detective from Scotland Yard here. Is everything alright?”_

_Sherlock glanced over Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder to see the top of Greg’s silver head. “Quite fine, Mrs. Hudson. The police will, at times, consult me on cases. I apologize for not apprising you of this earlier.”_

_“Oh, not to worry,” she replied, suddenly cherry. “I’ll let him up then, shall I? Handsome gentleman,” she said with a wink._

_Sherlock just replied with a nod and a tight smile. He retreated to clear some boxes off the two armchairs before throwing himself in the one closest to the window. Greg appeared and closed the door behind him._

_“How’s our friend from last night?” Sherlock yawned._

_Greg smirked. “I doubt as well-rested as you.” He looked around the room. “How do you afford a place like this?”_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes and grumbled, “Mycroft.”_

_“Your brother?” Greg took the seat opposite Sherlock. “I thought you two didn’t get on.”_

_“We don’t. However, I was getting tired of that closet of a flat. Didn’t have enough room to work.” He gestured to the kitchen, in which the table was already cluttered with a microscope, slides, beakers, flasks—most of which were still empty—and many other as of yet unused materials._

_“So how’d you get him to pay for this?”_

_“Technically, the funds are mine. Unfortunately, I have to dance around that insufferable git to access them.” He arched a brow curiously. “What brings you here, Greg? If last night’s catch is still securely in your custody.”_

_Greg shifted in his seat. “What happened the other week-”_

_“Last month,” Sherlock corrected brusquely. He stood and went to his new violin stand, running his fingers along the strings. “You said ‘no,’ Greg. Those were the rules.”_

_“What did you expect? I was pissed off, and with a damn good reason,” Greg snapped._

_Sherlock sighed, “It’s not my fault you can’t separate your emotional state from sex.”_

_Greg rubbed his hands down his face. “Most people don’t work like that, Sherlock. We’re not all machines like you.”_

_“Regardless,” Sherlock replied stiffly, “our arrangement is terminated.”_

_“Fine,” Greg said through a tight jaw. “I was mad to agree to it in the first place.” He rose and left, slamming the door as he went._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: next chapter will contain drug use.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My adorable beta apologies for the delay (entirely her fault). She wrote a message but it was too grovelly. I mean, it's just fanfic. Not the end of the world. Besides, she has Ch5 in hand and Ch6 in waiting.
> 
> And now, without further ado, onward!

While John was out of town, Sherlock discovered he had resigned from the surgery, though it was clear he was close to being sacked as it were. Sherlock wondered how John was paying for this holiday of his, though Harry probably had something to do with it. It was likely she had forced John into accepting it as a gift after their run-in with Moriarty.

Sherlock spent the time busying himself with experiment after experiment, running up to half a dozen at a time at Baker Street and anywhere from two to four others at Bart’s. Near the end of John’s two-week absence, Sherlock resorted to texting Greg, _Have you lot finally given up? SH_. This time it was Greg who didn’t reply. Sherlock eventually chucked the phone across the room to bounce dully on the sofa.

A moment later he recovered the mobile and shut it off. He went to the kitchen to collect a half-full bottle of sterile water and a clean narrow cylinder. In his bedroom, he set his things on the bedside table, locked the door, and dropped to his hands and knees. He retrieved his case and replaced the board before setting it on the bed. It had been seven months since his last use, but it only took a moment for Sherlock to mix a weak solution. He tied his arm off as well as he could with one hand, wiped the injection site, and pressed the needle into the skin. He settled back on the bed before pressing the syringe.

 

_Sherlock vaguely remembered his own name being shouted into his ear. At some point he had passed from mild concern to indifference. He settled into the high and, shortly thereafter, blacked out._

_It wasn’t until Sherlock came to in the hospital that he pieced together what happened, and that he did from what little the incompetent nurses and doctors had to tell him. Greg had come around after weeks of Sherlock refused case after case and, eventually, refused to answer any texts or calls. As a last resort, Greg managed to get in touch with Mycroft._

_When the nurse informed Sherlock it was his brother who had found him and called the ambulance, Sherlock bolted upright, the IV tape tugging painfully at his skin. He scowled and demanded to know where his brother was lurking now._

_“Said he had to go back to the office. He assured us he would be back this evening. I’m sure he just wants to clear things up so he can spend time looking after you.” She put a hand on his, but Sherlock only tossed it off and lay back down with his arms folded across his stomach._

_A nurse was in to check his vitals when Mycroft came around at half past ten that evening. Mycroft waited by the door while the nurse finished her notes. She gave Mycroft a narrowed glance before leaving._

_“I believe visiting hours are over,” Sherlock sneered as Mycroft took the chair on the other side of the bed._

_“We had a deal,” Mycroft said, ignoring Sherlock’s comment. To anyone else he would have appeared cold, callous. To Sherlock he was clearly furious._

_“Sod off,” Sherlock said and closed his eyes._

_Mycroft wasn’t going anywhere, though. He let out a long sigh. “What would our mother say, Sherlock?”_

_For once Sherlock bit back his retort:_ she wouldn’t say anything; she’s dead, and the dead don’t speak. _Sherlock kept his eyes closed and, miraculously, managed to fall asleep with Mycroft still in the room._

 

Sherlock’s mind stirred at the knock on his door and John’s voice calling through it. “You alright in there, Sherlock?”

“Fine,” Sherlock called back. His tongue felt slow.

“You weren’t answering your texts.”

Sherlock glanced at his mobile. “No,” he said.

There was a pause. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock sighed loudly.

“Well. I’m back.”

“Where did you go?” Sherlock searched for the information, but everything was locked away.

“Honestly?” John grumbled. “Tell me you noticed that I’ve been gone the last two weeks. New Zealand. With Sarah. Remember?”

“Of course.” Sherlock closed his eyes. He felt like sleeping. Again.

“Right, well, I’m back.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, and after a moment John walked away.

 

_The day after Sherlock regained consciousness, Greg showed up. Mycroft was, thankfully, at work, though he’d threatened to come by again in the evening._

_“What, no flowers?” Sherlock smirked._

_“Git,” Greg said as he took the visitor’s chair._

_“Please tell me you have a case for me to look at. Anything. I’m going mad in here.” Sherlock looked over at Greg and found the man staring at him oddly. “What?”_

_“How long have you been shooting up?”_

_Sherlock waved away the question. “It’s the first time in ages. I certainly wasn’t while we were fucking, if that’s what you’re worried about.”_

_“It’s not,” Greg said harshly. “I mean, yeah, but_ you _.”_

_Sherlock frowned. “What about me?”_

_“I’m having a hard time believing someone with your mind would do something so... damaging to it.”_

_Sherlock brushed away Greg’s concern with a simple, “I was bored.”_

_Greg massaged his brow with his fingertips. “You’re unbelievable.” He leaned back in the chair with a heavy sigh. “Mycroft told me about this ‘deal’ you two have.”_

_“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring up my brother,” Sherlock snarled and looked up at the ceiling._

_“You prove you’re staying clean, and you get regular stipends from your inheritance.”_

_“Greg-”_

_“I can’t say it’s a bad idea. I’d think after moving into that nice flat of yours, this would be the last thing you’d do.”_

_“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped. He looked over to find Greg gazing steadily at him._

_“You’re an idiot.” He stood and started for the door. Sherlock scoffed, causing Greg to look back at him. “Genius, sure, but an idiot.” He walked out without another word, before Sherlock could retort._

 

Sherlock tried to block out John’s incessant knocking and shouting. He rolled over in bed, knocking something to the floor in the process. He didn’t bother finding out what and covered his head with his spare pillow. He breathed a sigh of relief when the noise stopped.

It didn’t last long, though. John had gone to get a spare key from Mrs. Hudson and returned a moment later to unlock the door. When he opened it and flicked on the light—which produced a growled swear from Sherlock—he breathed in sharply.

“Jesus Christ,” John said, his voice tight. “What the hell- Sherlock!” The edge of the mattress sunk and Sherlock rolled back over. John had one knee on the bed and was about to put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“What?” Sherlock grumbled.

“What do you mean ‘what’? Shit, what have you done to yourself?”

“I don’t think it’s any of your business,” Sherlock said lazily.

“Like hell.” John got off the bed and started picking up Sherlock’s things. “Get dressed, if you can do it without falling over.”

“I could, but why should I?”

“Because I’m taking you to the hospital.” Sherlock snorted and John glared at him. “I don’t care if I have to drag you there myself. You’re getting treatment.”

“No,” Sherlock said, turning back on his side.

John snapped the box in his hand shut and left the room. Sherlock smiled to himself until he heard John return, talking to someone on the phone. “Mycroft? It’s John.”

Sherlock bolted upright, making his head spin. John was leaning in the doorway. “Hang up now,” Sherlock hissed.

John covered the microphone and lowered the phone. “Go to the doctor.”

“No.”

John brought the phone back to his ear. “Yeah, it’s about your brother.”

Sherlock scrambled out of bed, stumbling towards John and grasping for the phone. John took an easy step back, lifting his elbow out of reach.

“Well I just got back from New Zealand last night,” John continued.

“Fine,” Sherlock snarled.

“Oh, you know what? He was just sleeping. Hard to believe. Sorry to bother you.” John clicked his mobile off and stuffed it in his pocket. “Get dressed.”

“No,” Sherlock huffed. He made an attempt at straightening his tee and dressing gown, both of which were, like Sherlock, in need of washing. He did a one-eighty and flopped back into bed.

“Sherlock!” John pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You can take care of me,” Sherlock said.

“What?”

“You’re a doctor.”

“Yes, but-”

“And you quit the surgery, so you have plenty of time.”

John paused. “How did you- Never mind. You need to go to the hospital, Sherlock. I can’t take care of you.”

“You may not be the most brilliant of individuals, John, but you are a more than competent doctor.”

“I’m not sure if that was a compliment, but thanks.” John shifted his weight and took a deep breath. “Promise you won’t do this again.”

“Hm?” Sherlock was already falling back to sleep.

John came in and sat on the edge of the bed. His proximity stirred Sherlock to wakefulness, but he didn’t move. John bent over with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. Sherlock could just make out the bumps of his spine through his shirt. He wanted to run his fingers along it. He had even raised his hand when John sat up. Sherlock folded his hands over his stomach. John twisted around to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Promise you won’t do this shit again, and I’ll help you recover from this. And I won’t tell Mycroft.”

“Fine,” Sherlock murmured.

“Promise me, Sherlock. I won’t forgive you if you’re lying.”

Sherlock blinked his vision into focus for a moment. John hadn’t shaved for several days. He wanted to run his tongue across that rough stubble. He wetted his lips. “I promise.”

“Alright.” John rose, gathered the last remnants of Sherlock’s high, and left him to sleep for a while.

 

_The first thing Sherlock did when he returned to Baker Street was shower. He was hardly surprised to find his brother waiting in the parlour when he emerged in a towel. He ignored Mycroft and went straight to his bedroom. He took his time dressing, and he dressed smartly despite the fact that he planned to stay in for the next few days at least._

_Sherlock sat across from his brother and folded his leg over the opposite knee. “Well?” he prompted when his brother refused to have the first word. Sherlock wanted him out as soon as possible, and that would only happen after some kind of lecture._

_“I want you to get a flat share,” Mycroft said._

_The statement was so unexpected, Sherlock burst out laughing. “Excuse me?”_

_Mycroft folded his hands on his lap. “Get a flatmate, or go back to rehab.”_

_Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, all amusement dissolved. “Resorting to blackmail, are we?”_

_“This is the deal, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “Find a flatmate within six months and I will allot you your share of the rent from your inheritance. Everything else follows the old deal: proof you’ve been clean at least two months before you get a cheque.”_

_“A flatmate, Mycroft,” Sherlock was incredulous. “You could barely live with me, brother, and we were children.”_

_Mycroft stood and buttoned his jacket. “At the moment, that’s your concern, not mine. You’ll get enough to pay full rent on this place for the next six months. After that, it’s half or rehab.” They matched each other’s gaze for several seconds before Mycroft picked up his umbrella and walked out._


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock shrunk away from the light John was shining into his eyes. “Would you stay still? You’re such a child, Sherlock.” Sherlock glowered at him, but the effect was lost as John pried back his eyelids one eye at a time. He checked his pulse and temperature and jotted it all down on a pad. “Nothing unexpected. You’re incredibly dehydrated, though. I should bring you to the hospital for that alone. Sit up, but don’t go anywhere.”

John went out and Sherlock pushed himself up, propping his pillows behind his back before slumping against the headboard. Every movement was exhausting, not that it was a surprise. John returned with a large bottle of water. He unscrewed the cap and forced it into Sherlock’s hands. “Drink,” he commanded.

“Are you this callous with all your patients?” Sherlock muttered before putting the plastic to his lips.

John snorted. “If I coddled you, we’d get nowhere. Now shut up and drink.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he followed John’s orders. John sat on the stool he’d brought from the kitchen and waited patiently. Sherlock’s skin began to warm under the constant gaze, and he focused on the bottle instead. When it was half emptied, John spoke again, “How many days and how much?”

“What’s today?” Sherlock said with his lips against the bottle.

“The eighteenth.”

“Four.”

John rubbed his eyes. “And how much?” Sherlock shrugged and John snatched the water from his hands. If it had been fuller, water would have spilled everywhere. “How much, Sherlock?” Sherlock grabbed at the water, but John raised it out of his reach.

Sherlock averted his gaze before answering, “Approximately one-point-eight grams each day.” He looked sideways at John. “Slightly more yesterday.”

John stared at him for a long while. He didn’t say anything. He hardly moved. When he did, he stood up and told Sherlock to finish the bottle.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock watched with a narrowed gaze as John walk through the door.

“To run a bath for you,” John called back. “You’re filthy.”

A moment later, Sherlock could hear water running through the pipes. He drained the rest of the bottle and climbed out of bed. His legs nearly gave out as the room spun and he fell back to sit heavily on the mattress. He shut his eyes until the vertigo passed. Then he began to strip, laying the clothes purposefully on John’s stool. He tested his balance more carefully this time before going into the hall and standing in the open doorway of the bathroom.

John was kneeling by the tub with his sleeves rolled up, testing the water. “It’s not full ye- Christ, Sherlock!” He had stood and started turning towards the door, only to jerk his head away at the sight.

“Honestly, John.” Sherlock gave a show of annoyance, trying to keep his smirk at bay. “I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of naked men before.” He paused half a beat before adding, “You are a physician, after all, and you were in the military. The combination would suggest-”

“Yes, alright, you’ve made your point.” John faced him with a glare. “I usually have a bit of warning though.” He looked back at the tub, which was still far from full. “Don’t get in until it’s filled,” he said and pointed to the closed toilet seat. He shimmied awkwardly past Sherlock in the tight space and Sherlock took the indicated seat obediently. He glanced down to find his penis had stiffened from the encounter.

John’s voice accompanied the sound of his footsteps back down the hall, “I’m going to wash your sheets while you’re in the tub. Try not to drown. Oh, for Christ’s sake, Sherlock. Really?” He walked in right as Sherlock looked up from his own crotch. “You’re still high, aren’t you? When was your last injection?”

“About an hour ago.” He blinked. “So yes, I am still experiencing a high. However-”

“Right,” John interrupted. “Just... Just don’t move, alright?” He checked the bath temperature again before disappearing down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom. A few minutes later he walked by again, making sure Sherlock was alright, bed sheets bundled in his arms. He continued downstairs. Sherlock watched the water level rise, calculating how much longer it would take to fill, while he waited. When John popped his head in again he had a set of folded sheets in his arms. “Mrs. Hudson had some spare sheets. Oh, it’s done.” He bustled off to deposit the sheets before coming in and turning the taps off. “In you go.” He took Sherlock’s arm in a firm, but gentle grip and helped him into the tub. “You there enough to at least wash yourself?” he ragged, tossing a flannel in the tub.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied sourly.

“Don’t drown.” John left to make the bed before Sherlock could retort.

The hot water didn’t help Sherlock’s arousal, but he focused on scrubbing off the oil and grime build-up from the past few days. It was mundane, and yet somehow he found focusing on the simple task calming and not entirely tedious. Probably a result of the lasting high. He’d barely finished soaping himself when John came back.

Sherlock looked up and saw John leaning against the sink with his arms crossed. “I don’t understand why you would do this to yourself. I know, I know,” he interrupted when Sherlock opened his mouth. “You were bored, right? But you’re absolute rubbish like this.” He sighed and rubbed his forehead.

“John,” Sherlock started, but John just waved it away.

“No, I don’t really want to hear it. Let’s just get you through this.” He went over and pulled out the drain plug. Then he stepped out and returned in only his vest. He turned on the showerhead and Sherlock jumped at the brief cold water. “Sorry,” John said smirking. “Stand up. Careful.” He helped Sherlock to his feet and positioned him under the water. “You’re too damn tall, you know.” Once Sherlock’s body was rinsed and his hair was soaked, John had him sit on the edge of the tub. He washed his hair gently and in silence.

After Sherlock was rinsed and the taps turned off, and he stood dripping on the bathmat, he stared almost vacantly at his flatmate. “John.”

“Hm?” John turned around to get Sherlock’s bathrobe from the hook behind the door.

“I’m physically attracted to you.”

John chuckled, which was not the reaction Sherlock had expected. He turned around and held up the bathrobe. “Yeah, I noticed. I may not have your talents for observations and deductions, but I’m not blind.” He nodded down, and Sherlock saw his arousal had worsened slightly. “Do you need me to step out so you can take care of that?”

“No. I believe it will go away on its own now that you are no longer stimulating my scalp.”

“Alright,” John said, still grinning. “Come on, before you catch pneumonia on top of things.” He shook the bathrobe. Sherlock put his arms in and shrugged it onto his shoulders. John patted his back as Sherlock tied the bathrobe closed. “I’ve made you some tea. And you’re going to eat something whether you like it or not.” He led Sherlock carefully from the bathroom, one hand on his arm and the other on his back to keep him steady.

 

_Sherlock wriggled under his mother’s hand clamped against his clammy forehead. “But I’m bored, mummy!”_

_“I don’t care how bored you are, love.” She sat on the edge of his bed and smoothed back his curls. “You’re not going anywhere with that fever.”_

_“I don’t want to go anywhere,” Sherlock grumbled. “I just want my books!”_

_“You need to sleep, dear. You can read after you’ve taken a nap.” She kissed his forehead and stood. “Drink some water, Sherlock. I’ll be right back.” She wagged her finger at him. “Don’t even think about moving from that bed, young man.”_

_As soon as his mother was down the hall, Sherlock squirmed out of bed and walked dizzily to his bookshelf. He tried scanning the spines quickly to find one he could sneak under his covers, but his head felt fuzzy._

_“Aren’t you sick?”_

_Sherlock jumped and a wave of nausea hit him. He teetered and leaned against his shelf. His brother sighed and dropped his schoolbag outside the door. He walked in and lifted Sherlock up, even though Sherlock hated to be picked up now that he was six._

_“Put me down, Mycroft,” Sherlock tried punching his brother’s shoulder, but the angle was awkward and he still felt really dizzy._

_“If Mummy catches you out of bed, she’ll tie you down. Or worse, make me watch you.” Mycroft dumped his brother carefully into bed and tugged the blankets over him, tucking them tight over his chest._

_Sherlock wriggled his arms out. “I just wanted to get a book.”_

_Mycroft looked over his shoulder at the shelf. “Which book?”_

_“I hadn’t decided,” Sherlock grumbled._

_Mycroft went over to the shelf and scanned the titles. Their mother returned before he had picked one out, though._

_“I thought I heard you come in,” she said to her older son. “How was school?”_

_“Dull. Sherlock alright?”_

_“Just a head cold, I think. Better safe than sorry.” She poured out a dose of cold medicine and had Sherlock sit up to take it. He made a face and Mycroft grinned. While their mother was twisting on the cap, Sherlock stuck his tongue out at his brother. “Out, your brother needs to rest.” Mycroft picked up his bag and went off to his own room. She turned back to Sherlock at the door. “No books, mister.”_

_Sherlock huffed and sunk further under his covers. His mother flipped the light off and closed the door. Sherlock wriggled sleepily under his covers, wondering when it would be safe to get a book. Just as he began peeling back the covers, the door opened. He dove back under them, but it was only Mycroft._

_“Read this,” he said, stuffing a book in the nightstand. “But don’t let mummy catch you, or we’ll both be in trouble.” He left before Sherlock thought to thank him. Sherlock peeked into the drawer and read the title of the old book inside:_ Treasure Island _._


End file.
